


Through the looking glass

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22985158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Moments, like grains of sand in an hourglass, trickling down in the pool of a life well spent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. Heartless? No

**Author's Note:**

> A dumping ground for little Witcher things as they pop into my head. They might be developed in the future, but for now they are as is.

Geralt is about as heartless as Jaskier is blonde. That is to say: _he bloody well isn't_ , and any fool to argue otherwise invites a rather rude introduction between Jaskier's lute and their unfortunate face.

Of course the witcher can be brusque and impatient, but the key rests in whom he speaks with. Some of the village poor scraping coin together for his aid in ridding them of the local menace eating their livestock and stealing their chickens? He'll be measured, calm, _methodical_ in the questions he poses to them, the details he gleans from their rambling complaints. An official of inflated self-importance with so much wealth on display they might as well shit diamonds and sapphires? Those who wish to hire a witcher for a dangerous hunt and pay him less than a servant's paltry earnings? For them, there is the business end of Geralt's rather formidable temper, the tight strain of his jaw and the flash of sharp teeth, the creak of leather over scarred knuckles and fists. For them, he is the gruff brute expected, a killer for hire, only interested in coin and the hunt, and whatever scrap of knowledge they have of the creature they send him after.

For Jaskier himself, Geralt can be something of a rather spectacular asshole, but he forgives the witcher his emotional constipation and resulting outbursts, few and far between as they are. A man taught since childhood to smother every emotion and throttle any inkling of love before it can take root hardly makes for a _smooth_ romance. Still, he has the memory of Geralt cupping his face and touching their foreheads together, expression so strained he looked in pain, his voice like a rumble of thunder in the distance, so broken and vulnerable. _"I'm sorry,"_ he'd said _, "I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to lose you."_ Jaskier tucks it close in his heart, will guard the secret to his dying breath. Geralt loves, and he hurts, and he fears.

And for one hunted princess, Child-Surprise caught in the snare of destiny... Geralt is gentle. For both the horrors plaguing her whether she's awake or asleep, and how fragile she is, still but a child snatched from the only home and safety she's ever known and tossed to the wolves outside. He speaks when silence is his preference, because Ciri fears the quiet and the ambush it hides. He sets up camp when he'd prefer to keep moving, because all she's known for weeks is running and an endless ache in her bones. He is guardian and guide both in a world gone absolutely mad, and Jaskier could never put to words how his heart turns over at the sight of Ciri slumped into Geralt's side by the fire, his cloak thrown over her, his arm tucked carefully 'round her shoulders, _"you're safe"_ the whisper he repeats to her every day and night. A promise he'll never break.


	2. Mother hen

It's either a witcher thing or a _Geralt_ thing, not that Jaskier cares which it is. All that matters is _his_ witcher runs hot, so much so being tucked up against him at night in the middle of summer is tantamount to torture. Not so bad when they're in a bed, an inn, in the middle of a town or village and several walls separate them from any sharp-toothed beasties and he can laze around in his bare skin, but in the wilderness? He can't strip off a single layer for fear he'll be gobbled up for a light supper!

But in _winter_ , oh, Geralt is a gift from Melitele herself. Which is perhaps why their travel to Kaer Morhen is hampered so, eating away at the month's travel Geralt estimates and stretching it halfway through the second, instead. For Jaskier isn't the only one all but purring in appreciation of the warmth and safety the witcher provides, but Ciri, too, huddled into Geralt's right side as Jaskier does the left and just a glance and pout from her is enough to stay his hand on the saddle horn before he can swing himself up and rob them of his warmth entirely.

He might sigh and grumble about it, but he has neither of them fooled. Not when he exposes himself to frost and snow in favour of spreading his cloak wide and draping it round them both the best it'll fit. Not when he bands an arm 'round whomever shivers the hardest after a few hours walking and sends a pulse of heat through their bones with an impeccably controlled Igni cast.

He _definitely_ frowns about it when they eventually stumble their way through grand oak doors to an interior so devoid of life and bright decor it immediately has Jaskier grieving his own sanity. There another witcher greets them, far older than Geralt if the grey of his hair and the creased lines of his face are anything to go by. And there the stranger takes one look at Geralt, damp and windswept and flushed in the cheeks and tip of his nose from the biting cold, and his two companions where they remain glued to his side, woolen cloak straining to cover them both and its intended wearer, and guffaws.

" _Vesemir_ ," Geralt says in way of greeting and introduction both, grinding the name out between his teeth, playing at annoyance except for the ghost of a smile at his mouth.

"We were wondering when you'd show up, _Mother Hen_."


End file.
